The Funeral

It's a beautiful fall morning and the day of her mother's funeral.

The head of the nail is a ruby on wood.

Only rain should make those perfect glass pebbles,

surrounding the incense curling up like dancers’ hands.


So clear, so colorful,

so everything it’s not supposed to be.

These dark huddled figures, skittish like fall leaves,

color pooling at their feet.


She remembered:

her hair twisted across the pillow like roots

on the day when the sun dipped into the river

like a child meets the sea for the first time.


The child sat in the grass, toes in the water;

ripples catching the wind like sails.  

Her mother weaving fairy crowns out of daisies;

clumsy braids like wizard’s thread,

hands like pebbles from the riverbed,

eyes crafting secret kingdoms

of waltzing Sunspots and golden Fireflies.


But billowing black frills

            bring her back again. 


Against the velvet night, the moon rises.

She stares, mute, at the wooden box;

a machine,

she rusts in the rain and creaks in the wind.

The End

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